


Agents of Change: The Champion's Rest

by Eisen



Series: Agents of Change [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Beer Smut, Drunken Shenanigans, FIREBALLS, Gen, Intoxication, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisen/pseuds/Eisen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of one-shots as Hawke lets loose in Skyhold's Tavern</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Champion's Rest

**Author's Note:**

> The Champion's Rest is a Dragon Age Fanfiction by Eisen. Dragon Age belongs to Bioware.
> 
> As ever, my eternal gratitude to coffeeguru for editing my work.

“Maker’s flaming Wife, Hawke, what in the demon-swamped Fade are you doing?” Varric asked upon finding the Champion sitting at the bar of _The Herald’s Rest™_ warbling a horribly off-tune version of Andraste’s Mabari. She was sitting on one of the tall stools that were usually ideal for drinking at bars - Varric hated them - it cost too much dignity for him to try and climb up onto one.

“Vaaaaar*hic*! Cummere you.” The raven-haired woman slurred,  signalling for the dwarf to join her, the gesture being somewhat wild, barely missing Jim, who had just delivered a report to Krem.

“What’s the occasion?” the author queried as he managed to clamber on top of one of the barstools next to his long-time friend.

“Iron Bull heeeere, killed his first! Dragoon with the Inquisistor.” Hawke slapped the massive Qunari on the shoulder, causing the stool he was sitting on to creak like a ship at sea.

“That’s _The_ Iron Bull.” The mercenary commander emphasised.

“Pff, more like _The_ Horny Cow; I swear every day I’m heere a new person is walking funy. Mmm, thas not right…funy, fony, fairy…”

“Funny?” Varric supplied, taking a sip from the drink Cabot brought him after nodding his thanks to the stoic dwarven bartender.

“YeeahA! That! Foony! What was I saying?”

The Iron Bull chuckled, amused by the infamous apostate’s antics. “I believe you were doing a review on Skyhold’s walking styles.”

“Mmmm…yes, AHA! The Honey Cowl, right! …errr thassnotright.. Something!”

“And here I was thinking that you were about to proposition me.”

“Whoat?! NO! Neveerrrr, your… body porpoises are all wrong.” She poked a finger into his bare chest, “THE PORPOISES ARE ALL WRONG!”

“Proportions, Hawke, the proportions.” Varric corrected, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Maker how he’d missed those evenings at the Hanged Man.

“Thasswattisaid! PORPOISES!” She poked Bull’s chest again for emphasis. “All, wrong!” Then she swung around to Varric, “Jussliek you!”

“Oh you wound me,”

“Like. Fuck. You’re all chest ‘n head, where in Andraste’s frizzbee halo are the rest of your legs?!”

“Careful Varric, you’re in her sights now.” Bull said smiling.

The dwarf just laughed in response. “What did you give her? It’s rare for her to be this far gone.”

Bull pulled a large bottle from his side, “Maraas-Lok, puts some chest on your chest.”

“Maker, we’re the last people that should be drinking it then.”

“Hah!”

Hawke was looking at her own now, eyes slightly unfocused. “Yeeeees, I have enough chest.” If she was going to say anything else she was cut off by a hiccup.

“Mmmm…my tongue feels funny. WAIT! Nooobody move, where the fuck’s my tongue?! WHO TOOK MY TONGUE?!”

Varric was laughing properly now, unable to contain it any longer. “Relax Hawke, it’s still in your mouth.”

“What?! Oh,” she was squinting down her nose now, pawing at her tongue which she was trying to stick out of her mouth as much as possible, to see it and prove to herself that it was actually still there. Then without warning she pointed an accusatory finger at Bull, “Iss all your fucking fucked up fuck proprortions! BULL, STOP having such a weird body Thisss INStanT! Fucking city-caaamp*hic*ing-horde-person thing.”

Which was promptly when she passed out, Varric falling from his stool to try and catch her. “Andraste’s tits, how much did she have?”

“Half the bottle.” Bull responded laughing, downing his drink as he got up to help Varric get the Champion back to her quarters.

 

 


	2. Beer-Smut and Fireball Fetishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where two things that came out of a conversation with grimmcake get explored.

You’re sitting at the bar again. It seems that no matter what part of the world you end up in, it is always the dingiest tavern to be found where you make your haunt. Of course, Skyhold only has one tavern...and it is hardly dingy. Some part of you yearns for the characteristic odour of month old ale pooling on the floor, mixing with a hint of vomit and just that peppering of roasted meat and smoke from the hearth.

 

But no, you are miles away from Kirkwall...miles away from the Hanged Man. Miles away from all your friends and family. At least Varric was here, though he’s also the reason you’re here, troublesome dick - you feel happier just thinking about him. Knowing the one constant in your life is still constant.

 

You take a swig from the tankard Cabot pushed over to you when you sat down. It’s heavenly...the sparkling golden liquid of good Dalish beer washing between your lips and caressing your tongue with honeyed joy. It’s all Merrill’s fault, your addiction to this ambrosia - they say templars have it bad with lyrium…but nothing could come close to this.You force your tongue not to reach out towards the edge of the pint; it’s a struggle you’re bound to lose eventually, as the drink’s fizzing moistens your lips, teasing.

 

You breathe in its tantalizing scent, but then set the metal container down; you need to collect yourself after that heady experience, lest you make a fool of yourself in front of the other patrons. Out of nowhere, Cabot appears with a growler before you can protest; he sets it to your tankard and pours. The hopped ale foams as it enters your vessel again, the echoing splash getting muted by the blanket of bubbles.

 

You almost miss the grouchy dwarf’s smirk as he turns to serve another patron - oh yes, he _knows_. But you don’t care, you set the rim to your lips again, hidden tongue quivering with anticipation as buds beg to accept a second savouring of some tart herb added to the mixture of the alcohol. You tip the pint, careful not to let any of the precious fluid miss your beckoning mouth.

 

You almost whimper in disappointment as the trickle of sunlight ends, its lingering taste teasing you still.

 

Yes, it was worth coming to Skyhold, if just for this. The Inquisitor’s personal suppliers exceeded the expectations of anything you have ever experienced in terms of quality.

 

You leave the Rest; as much as you would like to drown the remnants of your existence into the special brew you’ve been given access to, you need to remind the keg of a doorstopping sniper of a promise he made.

 

You’re halfway up the stairs to the Great Hall when a flicker in the corner of your eye catches your attention. Then you have that feeling. That all too familiar feeling that’s become second nature to you over the years, the nagging itch at the back of your neck that says: danger.

 

You whirl around, looking for the source of the sensation; surely nothing in Skyhold would trigger it? Yet there it was. Your eye catches the flicker again. It’s a man, hooded in darkest grey and almost indistinguishable from the evening cliffs. He sees that you see him; they always see you see them. Your lightning-blue eyes always give you away, that little extra glow of lyrium betraying your mage-hood.

 

You see his eyes dart to your left, you follow his accidental glance. Standing among a crowd of masked nobles is the Ambassador, iconic golden ruffles almost immediately setting her apart from the other courtiers.

 

The man reaches for something; you don’t know what, but nobody ever reaches for anything good after that kind of a look. You close your eyes, the gentle caress of a flame as it licks the fingers, its touch neither hot, nor cold. You feel the energy travelling down your arm, akin to the sensation of flexing muscles, just so much deeper. It wants out, to be free, to bathe the world in conflagratory splendour.

 

The corner of your mouth twitches in excitement, a barely suppressed grin just beneath the surface. The feeling is exhilarating, building in the core of your being like the butterflies of anticipation, but focused.

 

You can hear it, just beyond normal hearing, your ears straining to pick up the song. You flex your hand, embers materializing in your palm, the urge to free the energy inside you overwhelming. You usher it into the burning orb, like maids their nervous bride. Finally it leaves you, a euphoric sensation as the current of power reaches its climax.

 

You watch as the world is turned to autumn leaves, twirling in the wind... _your wind_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:**

> So I was cajoled into uploading this here. Make of it what you will.


End file.
